


Prayer

by orphean



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: M/M, Mild Blood, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prayer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-08-20 20:01:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16562276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphean/pseuds/orphean
Summary: Father Faustus Blackwood had claws: pointed, thick things closer to those of the Beast than that of Man. Ambrose would watch his hands when he was summoned to him, entranced by the soft clack the tips made when he tapped them against his desk. There would be times when, deep in thought, Blackwood would run his nails down his face, and Ambrose wondered if they were sharp enough to pierce skin. He imagined the rivulets of blood where his fingers dragged, the high priest’s gaunt face marred with self-inflicted cuts.----In which there is discussions, prayer, and sex.





	Prayer

Father Faustus Blackwood had claws: pointed, thick things closer to those of the Beast than that of Man. Ambrose would watch his hands when he was summoned to him, entranced by the soft  _clack_  the tips made when he tapped them against his desk. There would be times when, deep in thought, Blackwood would run his nails down his face, and Ambrose wondered if they were sharp enough to pierce skin. He imagined the rivulets of blood where his fingers dragged, the high priest’s gaunt face marred with self-inflicted cuts.

When Blackwood looked at him, Ambrose felt like he was being seen both inside and out. Blackwood, he was certain, could see all of his flaws and frustrations and half-disguised desires. The way the high priest moved, talked, and ruled filled him with a feeling that lived somewhere between fear and passion. He was sure that Blackwood could see the fire that burned in Ambrose’s stomach every time he was studied by those inscrutable eyes.

It was a Thursday afternoon. They were sitting across from each other in plush and elegant armchairs, comfortably placed in Blackwood’s office. They had been discussing the academy’s library and the insufficiency of mortal classification. The current classification of the books, a bastardised version of the Dewey Decimal system, would not do, Blackwood told him.  _It just won’t do._

‘I would like a suggestion of a better way to store our knowledge. Could you do that, brother Ambrose?’

‘Of course, my Lord.’ He knew this was a task that would take months, if not years, but it guaranteed his value and would bring him that much closer to his freedom. Blackwood nodded. In a sudden turn, he looked troubled.

‘I have been concerned that the years you have spent in that house have left your soul weakened and untended. Let me pray for you.’ He stood, and Ambrose blinked in surprise. The high priest wanted to pray for  _him_? He nodded dumbly. Blackwood gestured at the carpet in front of him. ‘Kneel.’

The flames in his stomach leapt and whirled as he kneeled before him, bowing his head to welcome the blessings from the Dark Lord.

People had prayed for him before. Aunt Hilda would place a warm hand on his cheek as she murmured prayers to the Dark Lord; Zelda’s fingers grazed his forehead as she chanted in tongues; Sabrina would take his hands in hers and they would sit in silence, eyes closed. He would sit, on a chair or on the ground, legs crossed. He had never kneeled.

Not for prayer.

Blackwood’s hand was in his hair, his claws twisting around his curls, scraping against his scalp. Ambrose had his eyes closed as he listened to the purr of the man’s voice as he invoked the Dark Lord, naming and honouring the lesser and the greater demons, requesting blessings for a fallen creature such as Ambrose. The prayer was long, circuitous and complex, but he barely heard for the blood coursing in his ears.

‘Joy to you, my son, my brother.’ Ambrose opened his eyes. Blackwood’s hands were on him, one in his hair and the other around his neck, his thumb tipping his face up so he could meet his eye. When had he done that? His thumbnail pressed into his throat and when Ambrose swallowed, he felt the pressure against his windpipe.

‘Blessings to you, Father.’ He replied, as was customary. Blackwood did not move, staring down at Ambrose. The fire in his stomach was matched by the flames in Blackwood’s eyes. He could read that look. He knew what it meant. Ambrose wet his lips and placed a hand on his leg, feeling the shiver through the fine velvet. ‘I owe my freedom to you, Lord.’

‘It is no more than the Dark Lord asks of me. We must tend to our flock, my Ambrose.’

‘And we must tend to our shepherd,’ Ambrose said, trailing his fingers upwards. Blackwood exhaled and his dark-rimmed eyes flickered shut for a split-second.

‘That you should,’ Blackwood said, his voice heavy. He had let go of Ambrose, his hands behind his back now. ‘But first, you should tend to yourself.’

He sat down again, legs crossed. He looked at Ambrose, still on the floor, and gestured, commanding him to move. He rested his chin against his palm, one of his long fingers in his mouth. He waited. 

Ambrose stumbled as he got up, returning to his armchair. As he shimmied his jeans down to his knees, he suddenly remembered Luke and wondered if he should stop this, and if he should feel guilty. No, he decided. Luke would do the same.

‘Is this what you want?’ Ambrose asked, hearing his voice hitch as he wrapped his hand around himself, leaning back and looking at Blackwood.

‘Be quiet,’ he said, raising his hand in a command. His eyes trailed over Ambrose’s body. He had never felt so exposed or so desired. Blackwood leaned his head back, watching him through lidded eyes, his fingers tracing his lips. He was a man in rapt contemplation. ‘Art should be appreciated in silence.’

So Ambrose stayed quiet. He had never enjoyed the silence before, preferring to be loud and yelp with each new hit of pleasure, but he wanted to please the Dark Lord’s chosen emissary, and the silence built between them like the countdown to an explosion. Blackwood watched him like a rich man at the opera, his face painted with haughty disinterest and one leg crossed over the other. His eyes, however, burned, and every few moments he shifted his hips, pressing his thighs together. Ambrose used these small movements as cues and altered his strokes to match, from slow and steady to fast and erratic, building in strength and inching closer and closer to climax. Little by little, Blackwood’s passionless facade fell away and he was unable to hide his desire. He licked his lips and bit down on his finger, staring at Ambrose’s moving hand.

He couldn’t last much longer, but he didn’t want to climax without permission. It was suddenly very important not to disappoint him.

‘Please.’ The word was a whimper. Blackwood’s laugh was a short exhale, a reclamation of his control and power. He lifted his hand again and folded his fingers against his palm, a quick  _come, come_  gesture.

And who was Ambrose, if not a loyal servant? He came with a gasp and a grunt and a mess, splattering over his hand and shirt. Most of it clung to his palm and fingers, and he quickly looked around and found a napkin, abandoned after afternoon tea, to wipe the worst of it off. There were a few stains on his shirt that he tried to dab off as well. He hastily did up his jeans.

Blackwood held out a hand and, instinctively, Ambrose brought his messy hand forward, kneeling on the floor again and moving closer. Blackwood’s fingers grasped around his wrist and he brought the  hand to his mouth. Calmly, almost bored, he took each finger in turn into his mouth, swirling his tongue over and against his nails, so at odds with Blackwood’s, short and rounded. His gaze never left Ambrose. He lapped his tongue against his palm and kept going, slowly working his way over his hand, wrist still firmly gripped. When he raised his free hand, Ambrose opened his mouth.

The fingers were a precursor to what would come next; this he knew. Blackwood’s nails, as he had expected, were sharp. They dragged against his tongue, threatening to cut and release a flood of blood. Ambrose pushed his tongue against those fingers, curling it into the sharp tips. The blood was almost sweet when it came, and he could see the corners of Blackwood’s mouth twitch. He, too, had wanted that.

When he was satisfied, Blackwood removed Ambrose’s hand, calmly and determined, and placed it halfway up his thigh. He extracted his own hand and brushed his thumb against Ambrose’s hair, the touch gentle and almost kind. His hand came to rest upon the top of his head again, as it had when he had prayed.

‘Brother Ambrose.’

‘Brother Faustus.’ Calling him brother was almost heresy, but Blackwood didn’t chide him. He watched Ambrose in silence as his fingers crept up his legs, unhooking his suspenders and working on the buttons of his trousers. The material was slippery, and Blackwood’s hardness was pushing against the fabric, and Ambrose’s excitement was making him clumsy.

Blackwood did little to help, lifting his hips just a little when Ambrose tugged on his pants, pulling them down just far enough to reach. He was quiet, too, only releasing the smallest sighs and pleased  _hms_. His hand in his hair pushed and pulled and held him in place, clutching at the curls of his hair, digging bloodied half-moons in his scalp. Beyond that, he was satisfied to be serviced. Ambrose was happy to serve.

Afterwards, he sat on his feet as he watched Blackwood get dressed, reaching for the suspenders caught under his waistcoat and securing them against his now-buttoned trousers. When he stood, he reached out his hand. Ambrose took it, allowing himself to be pulled up. His mouth tasted like iron and salt. They stayed close for a few moments, Blackwood studying his face and Ambrose trying not to flinch under his gaze. Then the high priest moved, and sat down at his desk. The distance between them was a line in the sand. What had been was over.

‘Keep me apprised of your research.’ He was not looking at Ambrose, instead focused on the parchments in front of him. 

‘I will do, Father.’ Ambrose, suddenly self-conscious about the stains on his shirt. He buttoned his blazer. ‘Thank you.’

His hand was on the door handle when Blackwood spoke again.

‘And Ambrose?’ He turned back to look at him: again he could see the fire in his eyes; again he could feel the fire in his own stomach that was nothing more than lust. Father Blackwood smiled at him. ‘May the Dark Lord blessings be with you.’

‘And also with you,’ Ambrose replied and left.

As he walked to the library, Ambrose thought of Blackwood, and he ran his cut tongue against his teeth, and he felt his scalp for the small wounds he had left behind. He smiled. The Dark Lord had blessed him, indeed.


End file.
